


Selfie Generation

by Edgelord (lostlikeme)



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Photographs, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord
Summary: During their stay in France over two hundred years ago, Lestat commissioned no small number of self-portraits from the most talented artists he could find. The day he figures out he can take pictures of himself with his cellphone is a little like that.





	

This isn't the first time Lestat has handled a mobile phone, just the first time he's been so taken by it. He spoke to it all evening and fell asleep with it plugged in next to his coffin. Lestat’s discovery of telephone photography rivals his obsession with rock music. Since then, he’s begun calling it ma cherie and using it for what he claims is self-portraiture. 

Louis glances boredly over his shoulder from the four poster bed. He can see every preternatural detail of Lestat’s body from here. “Are you still staring at yourself?” 

Lestat flexes the muscles in his thigh and arches his foot above the sink. His pale skin glimmers like a diamond under the artificial light; Louis crosses his arms. 

“Da Vinci would slit his wrists,” Lestat announces, marveling at the curve of his own jaw in the mirror. He holds the little device high above his head, twisting his naked torso into the frame. “I'm a work of art with just the press of my finger.”

“You’re a narcissist,” Louis says. “And a devil.”

“We can’t all be content in our self loathing,” Lestat says with a laugh. “Who would drive the car?” 

Louis rolls his eyes and releases the pillow he’s pulled to his chest. The silk sheet slips from his shoulders and pools around his feet. Louis can feel the heat from Lestat’s gaze on him, bearing into his soul, but never his thoughts. 

“Won’t you help?” Lestat asks, bending at the waist to take another shot. “Have some sympathy for your maker.”

Louis rises from the bed, feeling overdressed in dark trousers and a white blouse. He heads toward the bathroom and leans against the engraved door frame. “Pity, maybe.”

“It’s art!” Lestat snaps. He stops what he’s doing to pull Louis in front of the camera phone with him. “Take one with me.” 

“That's me?” Louis frowns at the tiny depiction of himself. He doesn’t visit his reflection often; it’s always just the same. “I look awful.”

This close, Louis can hear the steady pulse of blood in his throat. The collar around his shirt feels tight and a familiar hunger scrapes the inside of his stomach. 

“You look charming.” Lestat licks his lips. “Like a dead poet.”

“Everything about you is an insult,” Louis complains. 

Lestat dismisses the notion with a flick of his eyes. Louis hasn’t been this close to his uncovered body in years. “Look into the camera.”

The inside of his mouth is dry. “Which part is the camera?”

They squeeze close together while Lestat searches for the perfect angle. “Don't grimace,” he insists. “Smile!”

Louis remains stony beside Lestat’s easy grin. He watches the faucet leak water into the sink a drop at a time. “What is there to smile about?” Their souls are still damned.

Lestat scoffs. “For one, we are beautiful.”

There’s a pair of leather pants hanging in the doorway, presumably for his next photoshoot. The improvised lighting casts a dark shadow across half of his face. 

“I'm average at best and you're blinded by your affection for me.”

Lestat smiles against the shell of his ear. “And you call me the narcissist.”

“I call you a lot of things,” Louis concedes. 

He tries to push Lestat away but he remains immovable as marble. Louis sinks into the contact despite himself. 

“Kiss me,” Lestat says. “For the camera.”

The room tilts when Louis closes his eyes. The touch is still scalding, but kissing comes back like they never stopped doing it. Lestat’s hair tickles his cheek when their lips part. Louis feels lost, longing for the familiar puncture wounds at his neck.

He shudders when Lestat’s teeth graze his skin. “For our fans,” he whispers.

The resulting photograph is better than it has any right.


End file.
